Friday, October 25, 2013
A pause to check the speed had blurs flitting past. No breaths spared twords delicate fancies, all must be purpose driven. The master game a white-knuckled madness. And what can be remedied at this juncture? What mis-step dance twords the door? The brass ring of a dawning-of-a- new-age was never grasped and spoiling for a fight sees no noble battle sail forth. What remains are sighs in the gloom, a push for quickend flight from the beast who knows my name, who ever casts glances my way, grasping at me with a look snide as fire blasted stones tumbling in a mine shaft. Lost echos, a tightening of the chest. Pick up the pace: for weariness leads to surrender.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Working with random thoughts grasped from the general malaise known as life- sleep will calm the tremors, dreams are flashes working out daylights situation: Pulled aside from the rush (all frozen in motion), I stand slack jawed and wide eyed. It is truly unreal, stretched thin.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
Seen from this distant angle not many pieces fit, the fix to attention thus lacks- were it to be more complex, different as new situations expose? Perhaps a clearer grasp here at the end of all things? Or more like muddied water laconicly passing by with days looming twords tomorrow.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
A project needs tending to or more likely to be started. Yes that is it. Will it be in wood, leather, have to do with rocks or something writen? I don't know. But to keep the ,well, I guess boredom is as good a word as any, at bay I'd best come up with something. One needs to tap out something-anything to get the writting motor started. For some flash of inspiration- baby oh my baby that would be nice. Winter is hanging on late this year. Obviously it has not bought into the global warming thing. Pity.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
The sound of birds woke him up. Quail, a whole bunch of quail, not more than thirty feet away were busy with preening and dust baths. They seemed also to be quaralling in a strange clucking/mewing sound interupted every now and then by two of them getting into a short lived fight (mere seconds long). Then a return to checking out feathers or kicking up more clouds of dust. One inquisitive fellow was perched on a rock quite near, giving the prone figure of the man a thorough looking over. The sun was not very high, but already it was hot. It was painful trying to swallow and running the parched tongue over dried lips helped not at all. His eyeballs felt more like cubes than orbs. With effort he got up on one elbow. A short flurry was heard and when he opened his eyes the little feathered fellow who had been checking him out was gone and the rest of the covey had moved off an additional fifty feet or so, slowly returning to the previous routine. He reached up, instinctivly touching his head, searching for what made it so painful. Twords the back the hair was matted, crusty, and the area underneath quite tender. Attaining a sitting position he next looked at his fingers, only seeing a little blood from his initial examination. Scratching his cheek then chin, as the fog lifted from his mind, he began to piece together what had happened...